Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
I thought afar, yet never wandered.
Always saw that what I never watched.

For the distant blaze, I brought forth the horizon.
But, the landscapes turned to patchwork swatches all at once.

By Speare you drove your votives,
That which was a work of prose.
By reality, it was as an artist's pose
On a good kind of love.

For a lover is a writer,
Whether with ink & quill
Or lead & wood cylindrical.
For a lover is a writer,
Whether with chisel & stone
Or dynamite & the mountains.

Whether they write in constellations
Or draw in the sand on the beach,
Time it will take us.

For time, it shall take us.

But, in time,
Will there be that which is loving?

What say the scars unseen?

The deep peaks & valleys cut?
That which you etch
Without ever touching it?
Heavy Hearted Apr 16
Happy birthday- its what they'll say
With voices which typed words delay
Where on your behalf today, they'll wish
Simply for your happiness

A wish to me, is like the Horizon
An imaginary line of undefined potential,
Forever fading when approached.
With its endless opportunity preceding the powerless thrill of pursuit-
Forever fading,
we approach.

When Happiness is fleeting
as all emotions are,
The golden light of  this April's dawn-
Not silhouetted, scars.
After the soul's darkest night
Drifts into it's deepest blue,
nightmarish, waking dream's reveal
relentlessly, nothing new.
Zywa Mar 22
Don't stand there staring

at the horizon, but look --


where you are and go.
Theatre performance "Holly Goosebumps" (2025, Ada Ozdogan)

Collection "Here &Now&"
Zywa Mar 22
Look up, look beyond

the point where you stand, the stars --


will show you the way.
Diane Sawyer's interview "Science will win" with Stephen Hawking (and his daughter Lucy) on ABC (June 7th, 2010) --- Song "Sammy" (1966, Ramses Shaffy, album "Ramses II")

Collection "Here &Now&"
We are the blind faith of birds believing
In these empty sightless winds,
Sugar-spun cotton candy clouds; two kites
With trailing long strings.

We require no advice on the art of how
To fly, tangled traffic threads of candy cane
Lines of the clouds of yesteryears –
Our drive is sometimes a descent down
A mountain, make the time to embrace the sky;
Glide!

I gave up on my possession of love, to make
Peace with those demons; tears cascade like
Contemporary storms, running rivulets; craters
Upon our skin as the ache of hurt deepens...

Stinging like the creases of a well-worn shirt;
Lessons etched in the fabric of new wrinkles –
Still to remain as the silhouettes of the horizon.
Àŧùl Jan 11
The night has ended,
And the dusk is stale.
A different dawn descended,
And the sun is shining pale.

There are some memories here,
Some more are hidden there.
I'm still lonely,
But I'd be lonelier
If not for my parents.

Now I work on my dream rate,
None was more appropriate.
My HP Poem #2039
©Atul Kaushal
Nemusa Dec 2024
clouds embrace the sky,
horizon meets the dark sea,
shadows weave their tale.
So we cross island to island each morning.
Gerald Nov 2022
You could
love me the deepest;
fight the Ocean
for its tittle.

You could
enchant my soul;
replacing the moon
on the horizon.

But even after
all that, If you want my heart,
you'll have to learn
to share with the
darkness.
@catch.inthe.dark
Erwinism Oct 2024
From the swing;
the playground,
when the mind is clear
as honeyed water,
there,
ever on the road goes,
slithering into the shadows
of the sleeping horizon,
and
when my feet
were big enough to fill
the muddied shoes,
I sauntered,
then walked,
then trudged,
until my toes were nailed
to the asphalt,
until I came upon
where the road has crumbled,
its debris scattered.

And stood this body,
two sizes too big for this tiny soul,
swathed in layers of expectations,
dragging sagging lumps of age around
past this old carnival.

Forsaken years in the rear view mirror
once painted with life,
proud stallions
here, stand still and gray,
golden poles tarnished,
Their hand crafted eyes
wide-open,
staring through the smudged glass mirror at the lives they missed.  
while the music box wheezes—
a slowing tune,
a dying sound,
as shadows lengthen
on this fairground.

Deep in my pocket,
my fingers exhume
yesterday’s cold corpses
no longer jingling,
just grating tired,
clutched a handful of
these tokens—forgotten currencies,
now just pieces of obol for the eyes,
obsolete,
for games whose booths have long since shattered.

The Ferris wheel creaks,
half-dismantled,
Its empty seats
Swinging
in the twilight’s breeze,
crying tears
of rusted nuts and bolts,
groans high above my head,  
emitting light
a weaker pulse
against the night.  
As if they were embers
holding on to their glow,
if for a moment until the breeze snatches their soul out of their ashy bed.

I stand beneath it,
feel the wind brush past  
And wonder if I’ll ever climb again,  
or if this ride has ended with the spark  
of something breaking,
and like with most
it is something I can’t fix.
Next page